They Called Her China Doll
by Lang Noi
Summary: Vietnam, through from the end of the Second Opium War and forward. Also starring America and Hong Kong.


**They Called Her China Doll**

**A/N: **Basically, a one-shot of the relationship between Vietnam and the world, but mostly America and China (and optionally France).

* * *

They had called her a "China doll." England and France and their shifty smiles and cat eyes and smugness. They had called her that for a long time now.

It was strange. She was not Taiwan, was not Chinese, not really. China had never been interested in much, but his rulers liked money. They liked to take it from her. They liked to live in high style as her pantry was bare and she could hear her people cry. She thought that, sometimes, she could hear both Koreas cursing their older brother, but quietly. They did not hate him, after all. They hated the Han, and then the Sui and Tang and Song. They hated many, but never China.

They hated Japan, too, but everyone did to some degree. Their brother, the avatar (a funny word -- India had invented it in order to describe them and her) of Japan, was forgiven often and loudly, but there could only be so much give in the world. Eventually, she thought, everyone would snap and the world would shatter under the strain.

France and England came in the middle of that. They and some of their neighbors in the West had been coming for centuries, taking, taking, begging, threatening...

But before, none of them had dared to take her away from China. She didn't think even her neighbor Thailand was interested in her, but then, Thailand was always busy with something. Whether it was a new king, a new way to scorch a man's tongue from his mouth with pepper, or a new invention to tinker with, Thailand was always happy.

France came. He defeated her people, even China's. It was then that she realized that China couldn't defend her anymore. For years, his weakening had been ignored by most. Then, suddenly, he was falling too fast, too fast. She fell slowly, though. She would not submit willingly to a Westerner. It wasn't until China himself gave up nearly twenty years after the devastating first contact with England's ships that she did.

And still they called her that. They did not understand, did they? Would they call Japan that? The Koreas? Only Taiwan could be called that, and never to her face.

France called her Annam, sometimes. She didn't think he knew the difference between her and Annam, her mother. Annam was dead, like Champa long before her. Now it was only Vietnam, the last in line and, she thought, the weakest. Champa had been able to hold off even China for a long time, Annam had held off Vietnam's current neighbors. And what had Vietnam done? Nothing.

Vietnam decided she hated France. She hated his fancies, his way of life, his being. She hated him, but for a while after China fell, she hated England more.

* * *

He was taller than her. Bigger and stronger, probably, but he still went down like a sack of rice when he slammed into her. It was one of the advantages of having good footing.

"I am sorry," she said as she extended a hand to help him up. "I did not see you." Indeed, she didn't see much these days. She preferred to keep her head down, even while world-shattered decisions were being made in the room the young man had just come from. She wondered, did he have something to do with the documents they were drafting in there?

He bounced back to his feet in an instant. "It's not a problem, really. That happens all the time." He bent down to have a better look at her. "Um…who're you?"

He was perhaps ten centimeters taller than her, with yellow hair that stuck up in strange directions and a wide, childish smile. He wore the slim-framed glasses that her neighboring brother was so fond of – perhaps it was a style. He seemed quite nice, but she had thought that about many people and had usually been proved wrong. Her hands tightened on her broom.

She was small and "delicate," as one of the men had said. She had long, straight black hair that covered her face sometimes, and hazel eyes. She wore green for many occasions, but today she wore white as a sign of grief. Today, part of her world was ending, no matter what the others said. "I am Vietnam."

"Huh? Well, I'm America." He smiled in such a way that she thought of the sillier of the Korean twins, who did not seem to be in any hurry to grow up. "Why are you here?"

"I was forced to." Vietnam said. That was not fully true, she thought, for though France had indeed controlled some of her territory for the last few months, she was still as independent as she wished for now. But, at the moment, she had a reason for staying.

"By who?" America asked, sounding horrified, or maybe angry. Perhaps he did not understand how the Westerners thought? He seemed too naïve for that.

"It does not matter." Vietnam said, beginning to sweep the hallway again. "I am not trying to escape now, and I am not unhappy here."

"You're kidding!" America exclaimed, making Vietnam glance back at him curiously. "You've got to be free to be happy!"

"I only said that I am not unhappy. I am not happy, either." Vietnam said, walking down the hallway with her strange new friend following. "I need to be here."

"Why?" he asked. Vietnam could not help but think that with him following her, she would never get the hallway clean. What a terrible shame, she thought rather dryly. Oh well.

Vietnam went down a set of stairs. Still the young man followed. She turned into the servants' quarters and said, "Please wait a moment." At least he did that much, she thought as she went inside. It was strange to be around someone so like a child again. Even when she was a child herself, Vietnam had never liked children very much.

Her room was shared by dozens of other servant girls of varying ages. None of them liked her, since she was the only Asian of the entire lot, but she didn't like them either and it all evened out in the end. She looked under her bed for her personal projects, the sort that nobles like France never liked seeing their servants work on.

She came back to her waiting puppy with a long scroll and a stack of books. She put the books in his arms and bid him to follow her. She would get no work done today, but that was fine with her. Vietnam had never liked France anyway, and it didn't really matter to her if he tripped on a wet spot on the floor and went down one of the sweeping staircases he seemed to love so much.

"What is all this stuff?" America asked, clearly struggling under the weight. Vietnam looked back and sighed, then turned into the library where she spent most of her spare time.

The library was very large, in the sense of majesty and perception, at least. Vietnam had measured it once – it was actually only slightly larger than the three floors in her own home back in her country, but it didn't really matter. All the bookcases made it look larger, as did the huge glass windows to one side, which allowed light to stream into the building.

"Please set them down here." Vietnam said, tapping a small table off into a corner. She promptly wandered off the scour the shelves for a new leather-bound resource. She returned to where America was waiting after several minutes with one fat tome in hand.

"Can you even read any of this? I mean, I didn't mean it in a bad way–!" America cut himself off as his voice rose and Vietnam gave him a long, calm stare. "What's it for?"

Vietnam unrolled a scroll she had been writing on. "This is one reason why I have stayed." She pointed to the book at the bottom of the pile America had carried. "It is a book on opium. The others are the same."

America picked up the book she had picked out and glanced at the spine. "This isn't English. It's French." He could not read French? How odd. To Vietnam, it seemed that everyone knew it. Certainly all the housekeepers did.

"True. I can speak many languages, but I can only read and write in a few. French, my own language, and my friend's. It is for him that I stay." Vietnam said. "I cannot find these books in my language, so I need to stay here to understand."

"What's to understand? Opium's just a drug, isn't it? I mean, it's just to dull pain." Ah, America. So naïve, Vietnam thought, remembering.

"No. It is also very addicting, as well as very dangerous. According to these books, it can kill in large amounts." Vietnam said softly, removing a pen from her pockets and beginning to write. "My friend is very ill because of this."

"What happened?" America asked, pulling a pair of chairs over to the table and driving deep gouges into the hardwood floor. No doubt France would have her be the one to repair those. He spun one of the chairs around backwards and sat leaning against the back with his arms crossed. Vietnam had never seen anyone do that before – it looked improper, which was something France had never allowed his servants to be.

"It was not so long ago." Vietnam began, trying to remember what she had found that day. She had not been present for much of the conflict – none of them had been, except for the two least able to speak of it – but she had a good memory and a better imagination. "There was panic. There was an attack from the coast – black ships with powerful guns. They sailed up the river and began to fire on the city."

She did not understand why everything had simply broken down in the wake of that. "I saw fighting between ships and between soldiers. Hundreds died." She closed her eyes. "Screams filled the air as people fled the attack, moving inland or across bridges. Many ran into the forests. I was there at the end – my friend had wanted me to come and speak with him. I do not remember about what.

"The ships fired on the city for days. Soldiers fought in every alley, making the city very dangerous to live in. I went against the crowds, wondering if he was safe – I knew he had little brothers and sisters and wondered if any of them had died." Vietnam sighed, though partially with relief. Neither of the Korean twins had been harmed, for they had been far away in their homeland fighting off bandit attacks. Japan had been in his territory, doing whatever he did during his years of isolation.

"What happened next?" America asked, his eyes wide behind his glasses. Vietnam noticed that she hadn't written a word on her scroll and sighed again. Well, no work could be done today. Perhaps she should thank the young man for giving her a distraction, though she thought she would be cursing his name come morning, where there was more work to do.

Did he think of her story as just that? A fable?

"My friend owned a small tea shop along the riverbank. When I found it, I saw many dead men all around it. My friend had fought, but like the soldiers on the river, he had lost." Vietnam tapped a cheekbone, wondering how much she could tell him. He was, after all, a stranger, and closer to the Westerners than to her. But the look he gave her, of anticipation so much like her siblings, made her shrug to herself and continue. Here, it became painful. "I found soldiers inside. I could not fight them safely – I ran. None followed for some time, and even then they seemed more interested in looting the shops nearby than chasing me. I saw a man with green eyes leave my friend's shop, dragging my friend's youngest brother behind him. My friend, I thought, must be dead. He would never let anything happen to that boy, no matter the cost. He is stupid that way.

"My friend was still alive when I crept inside, but he may as well have been dead. He did not recognize me, his clothes were torn and his shop ransacked. There was so much blood…" Vietnam looked out the window, where the cheerful outdoors mocked her. "His mind was destroyed. He could not think or speak beyond groans and could not walk. I cried then. With only me to care for him, what could be done? He was gone, his youngest brother taken, his allies far away. I called for help, whatever would come. I do not know if they did. I was taken shortly after."

They sat in silence together for a while, until Vietnam resumed the scratching of a pen on paper. She had things to do.

"So, your friend took opium?" America asked after a while. Vietnam looked up from her scroll and shook her head. "What happened, then?"

"It was forced. My friend knew opium as poison – he would not touch it. I found many lengths of rope cut in that house and I knew that he had been bound." Vietnam tapped the blunt end of the pen against her lips before she resumed writing. "I found…other things, as well. I know that my friend will never be whole again."

"Who did all this? I mean, it doesn't sound like his own friends would do this to him. That'd be crazy." America said, frowning. "It's all really crazy, actually. I mean, opium isn't even that dangerous! I'm sure I would've heard about it being bad for you after a couple people died." He was still frowning, but now it was thoughtful. He did not believe it, but he did not disbelieve it, either. He didn't know what to think.

"By the time my friend was…attacked, many people were already addicted. It did not make any sense to him, either." Vietnam said.

"Who is your friend?" America asked.

"You would not know him." Vietnam said. "Most do not care anymore. Especially that England. I do not like France, but I can allow his feud with that man. He deserves no less." She glanced at the broom leaning against the wall and wondered if she would be missed in the halls. Her section had the most people going through it these days.

"What'd England do?"

"Nothing that anyone else in his position would not." Vietnam muttered, standing and picking up her broom again. She would just have to hide her research under a loose sheet – no one cleaned the library except her, and even then she only did it once a month.

"Seriously, Vietnam. What'd he do? Did he hurt your friend?" America demanded. He shot to his feet.

"Yes." Vietnam replied, throwing an old gray sheet over the entire table. France had never entered the library without being forced to and Vietnam was sure he would not change his habits now. She peeked out into the hallway before walking out with false calm – France did not know she could read and would probably have threatened her if he knew. It was unbecoming for a woman, particularly an "Oriental" one, to know too much.

It was unfortunate for France that Vietnam made a habit of knowing too much and getting out alive. It was one of those things that made being a ferry girl so interesting back home. People always like to talk to her, often about things they shouldn't.

"Hey, wait." America had followed her. He seemed very impatient, but frustration also showed.

Vietnam sighed. She thought America was like a child, and he was. A very large, highly optimistic child of idealism and doggedness. Maybe that was why she saw so much of her brothers in him. All of them had opinions strong enough to reverse the tide. "I am very busy right now, America. I need to finish sweeping this floor. Good-bye."

* * *

America saw her again two days later, carrying a bucket and a floor brush attached to a long pole. She dumped the soapy water all over the antechamber floor and began scrubbing away at a decidedly not shiny patch of floor. She probably knew he was there, but she ignored him.

England walked past at about that time, followed by a child America had never seen before. America didn't say anything to England – he seemed focused on something far ahead, probably France being a pervert again – but the child stopped and stared at Vietnam as she scrubbed and scrubbed. She stopped after a while and looked at him.

"Who is your brother?" Vietnam asked him, kneeling on a dry patch of floor.

"England," the child said. America had a better look at him now – he looked a lot like Vietnam, but his face reminded him of someone he hadn't seen in a long time, and the eyebrows were definitely England.

Vietnam smiled, for the first time since America had met her. It didn't reach her eyes, which remained that plain, perfectly blank hazel. "I did not say that right. Tell me, Hong Kong…" And she said something that America thought might have been Chinese, but her accent was extremely heavy. He didn't think even England, who had apparently had a number of disputes with China over the years, would have been able to understand her.

Hong Kong did not smile, either. He replied in Chinese, "I do not forget. I will never forget."

"Good." Vietnam said to him in English again. She patted his head and sent him on his way. And she got back to her cleaning as soon as the boy had left the area. There seemed to be energy in her movements, as if meeting Hong Kong was like a revelation.

"Your friend was China?" America asked after a while. He remembered the Arrow War very well – it had only been a few weeks since peace was declared. He remembered England…asking to speak with China in private, at one point.

"Yes." Vietnam said. And that was all she needed to say.

* * *

Vietnam was not a guerilla fighter by nature. In fact, she preferred to stay out of most of her country's affairs, as her mother and grandmother had before. But, if it came down to choosing between her freedom and being a vassal state of France for the rest of her days, her choice was made.

The fight had started as merely a rebellion. She hated France, who always called her Annam, or, more hated, "China doll." She hated his loose ways and the way he and England looked at her as a colony, a piece of something much more powerful, even though she had never been a truly subjugated nation until the Westerners had come with their ships and blasted China into submission and taken her away piece by piece until there was nothing left. They saw her as something to be squeezed and squeezed for everything she had, like they had thought of China after the Arrow War. China had recovered in the years since then, but not completely. He could hardly afford to back her now, but he did.

And that led to her own goal, independent of the north and south halves of her territory. She didn't care about the ideals being thrown around as if they were real, as if they were something worth dying for. No belief was worth being caught in the yoke of yet another Western power. Her goal was simple now -- no matter the cost, she would defeat the foreign powers at their own game. Even if it threw her into ruin, she wanted the Westerners to withdraw. She did not want any more interference.

China was an ally. He was old, far too old for anything anymore, it seemed, but he was willing to assist her. He didn't care for Russia's communism either, but if it made him strong enough to help her, like it made her strong enough to fight back, he would follow it. He would back her all the way. China had no desire to own her, not like his emperors had once before. He wanted her to be her own woman, like how the Koreas and Japan were now their own men. He sent her goods and weapons and promised to help. She felt confident in that, at least.

She slammed into America head-on. But only from her perspective. From his, she probably hit him from behind.

The fighting was brutal. She forgot how many of her people died, how many of China's did, or how many Americans were lost in a hail of gunfire. She didn't care. The only thing that mattered was winning, winning, winning...

It would be a long time before she realized exactly how much had been done in such a short time.

* * *

America slowed down near the end. He was tired, hell, even Russia and China seemed exhausted by the prospect of continuing. But Vietnam, the girl with the razor-edged tongue and rice paddle and no structured military...she kept going. She didn't seem to notice her own losses, only fighting and fighting like everyone had back in World War II.

It didn't work that way for America. He wanted an easy win, a way to defend Vietnam from Russia's plague without hurting her that badly, even after China and the northern Korea had already gone along with it. Why didn't she see that? She attacked everyone, except China. She was hurting her own people worse than America was!

It didn't really matter now. He was pulling out -- his people needed him back home again. There had been enough anti-war protests before he'd even left, and now they were getting louder. America had felt it in the beginning, when he had first come to help France out (and the cheese-eating monkey had already left a long time ago). Now it was getting impossible to ignore.

Oddly enough, he didn't feel like he'd lost, not really. Sure, he wouldn't get into a war half as easy next time, but he thought Vietnam be in a lot of trouble for a long time when she realized he was gone and tried to put herself back together.

What had England called it? He'd known America had met Vietnam before, so what...?

World War I had been almost a family dispute, but with whole countries going at it instead of just a bunch of messed-up people who didn't get along much but had to for the sqake of appearances.

World War II had been a knock-down, drag-out brawl between good and evil.

The Korean War was like the testing ground between him and Russia, when they'd both realized their power.

And the now-named Vietnam War?

America couldn't help but feel it was the worst defeat he had ever suffered, even if he hadn't really lost.

* * *

**A/N**: Do not expect historical context. I'm pretty sure I got almost everything wrong. orz


End file.
